A Pity
by wyvern-elavie
Summary: History and society are such pitiful things in this world. Daerrow DAxA . Dramangst-ish. Related Oneshots. Ch 1&2 Edited a bit.
1. A Pity

Disclaimer: I don't own Storm Hawks. Never have, probably never will. If I do? Holy crap, I'd be fangasming in my pants.

A/N: Critique, like critique-critique, welcome and begged for. Written on a request.  
A/N2: Added some stuff to the last blurb. Sequel is possible? Possibly.  
A/N3: Sequel up. Obviously. Changed the tense in this Ch. Grazi to Kuppatsu. Much love.  
A/N4: Apparently, this reminds Kuppatsu of my old "druggie writing" X( Moar Editz.

* * *

A Pity

* * *

A shadow moves through your peripheral vision, and you do all you can to stay still. He probably thinks you haven't noticed him yet, or maybe he does. Either way, he doesn't bother to creep slowly like so many others would, and so many more have. No, he takes long strides among the shadows until he reaches the very edge of where you sleep.

"I know you're awake."

The voice echoes loud and clear through the dark room, and in the silence, the sound is monstrous. It reverberates in your ears, inside your head, and goes down your spine.

You shiver.

"That's better. See? At least I know you're not dead. Yet."

You jump out of your covers in a flash of light to wherever you think the voice is coming from--though you're not entirely sure.

You figure it was a lucky guess as the heels of your palms collide with something hard and painful, and you bring your knees up and apart to tackle the intruder more efficiently.

He topples over with a loud "Oof!" and a dull crack to the ground, muffled by the coat over his normal battle attire.

"Well, well," he smirks at you. You can hear that smirk in the dark, you know it so well--and somehow that of all things is what scares you. "Puberty finally hitting, I see."

He makes no move to attack you yet, and you know that all he's doing is waiting for you to weaken. In fact, he's made no offensive moves thus far in the game. Panic overtakes you, and you do the only thing you know how at this moment.

Your hands move to his throat and you begin to push down your weight just a little harder.

"You're pathetic. Doing things like this." It sounds so raw and so spiteful that you're surprised when you realize it's the sound of your own voice.

"Funny," he laughed. "That's what_ he_ said too before I took him."

* * *

It's quite a pity that he looks just like his father, or rather, maybe it's a blessing. Still, the ghost of Christmases and all squeamishly sickeningly fluffy holidays past always comes out to haunt you the moment you unsheath the vibrant blade at your thigh.

His father was always there to meet you on the battlefield.

It's quite a shame that his son did the same.

You smile as realization dawns on his face--what you really mean by taking him. It's incredulous--how frowned upon this sort of thing is in some Terras, his no exception. Maybe that's one way his father had been different--being the exception to this rule of hatred. On Cyclonia, his father would've been praised for such an act, being so open. His father had chosen the order of society.

You aren't so sure this boy would, knowing those same genes run strong through him, at the expense of it's source's inhibition. That's what makes this boy different, the lack of inhibition. And quite possibly--quite hopefully--it will be his downfall.

With skill that indicated much more practice than battle would have suggested, you switch your positions with ease, taking it a level up by bringing your unsheathed, but unpowered, energy blade to his throat.

"Amazing you haven't said anything by now, usually you're so _vocal_ during our little tiffs." You pause for a moment to deliver an extra blow. "So was he."

* * *

Your lower half thrashes underneath him, desperate to get free, despite the danger of the blade at your throat. You don't tire, you don't give up. Storm Hawks _never_ give up. Your attacker even points such out as his long fingers smoothly inch up your jaw. You fight the urge to bite him, realizing that such action would only provoke him even more.

* * *

So he does exactly what his father did. He sits there and takes it.

You don't _want_ him to just fucking sit there and take it. You want him to scream, to laugh, to cry, to do _anything._

Everything that his father fucking _wouldn't._

You grab his wrists so hard they bruise _your_ fingers and force them above his head. His hands--so vital to his survival--are rendered useless. "You're nothing like him, and you _never _will be_, Aerrow_."

Such is a pity, indeed.


	2. A Shame

Disclaimer: I don't own Storm Hawks. Duh. Not Canadian. :(  
A/N: Zomg. A sequel? Why, I never! Eh. Just oneshots, though. Related oneshots, but still oneshots. Critique welcome. Un-beta'd.  
A/N2: Not officially beta'd, but love to Kuppatsu, who told me to change some stuff up. Including narration. Frickin' tedious work, that is.

* * *

A Shame

* * *

Bags under dulled hazel green eyes stare back at me—and this time, it's not a picture. Not that I've looked at that for months, not since I signed up for this gig. I swore I wouldn't: I'd go out of control.

Except maybe, this time, I think it's necessary.

_If you win, you live. And just so you know… I never lose._

He defeated me that night, and the night after that, and the night after that for quite some time now. It's happened so often, that I've come to a conclusion: A part of me is _dying_.

Except, I'm thinking that the part of me that's dying is my _resolve_.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate him. Every night, I say it without fail—to his face, to your face, and to every face within reach.

But I still keep my door unlocked and my body unguarded. My blades aren't under my pillow anymore; they're inside their drawers. It's not that I feel that I don't need them... _It's that, deep, deep inside my brain, you don't _want_ them anymore and you won't admit it_, says the little voice in my head. _You don't want them, and at this point, you never will. You'll just give in, give up, and let yourself be._

I took it that first night, and I'd take it again, and I'd take it with more conviction. He threatens me, I notice, when he blows hot warmth into my ear. He says he'll do things to me, to my friends, to those I'm too far away to protect, all at the push of a button and an activation of a crystal_. I don't even care_, I spit at myself. I get lost in that ever low and testing voice—the one that haunts the dreams of my childhood, and the one that spurs them on.

And for once, in so many months, I turn over the picture in my drawer—the one that lies just underneath my blades, and I reason to myself.

He turned down his best friend, and he created a monster—one who forged an empire that threatens the very being of Atmos. I'll do what he couldn't—that's what I said before. Funny how it came back to bite me in the ass.

And so many other different places.

I berate myself and turn the picture over once again. It's of no further use at the moment. He may have created a monster in his best friend, but I'm no better. I created a monster in myself. No, he created a monster out of me, because he didn't take it. He could have saved so many Terras from destruction.

If only he'd taken that one, single offer.

If he'd said _yes _to the Dark Ace.

_I'm not running away._

I'm not. Of course I'm not.

In fact, I'm only throwing myself closer.


End file.
